


Dark Moons

by VeannaBlue



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Skyrim
Genre: Backstory, Best Friends, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Implied Sexual Content, Kharjo's voice made me do it, racist idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeannaBlue/pseuds/VeannaBlue
Summary: Fleeing from an oncoming storm The Dragonborn and Kharjo seek sanctuary at The Frozen Hearth Inn. Within, they find warm food, but a less than warm welcome. Together they realise that sometimes you need more than four walls and a roof to find shelter and comfort.





	1. Shelter

The air around them crackled, alive with the intensity of the approaching storm.

"We need to find shelter before that hits!" The Breton called back to her companion, her voice barely audible over the raging howls of the wind.

The Khajiit looked to the rapidly darkening sky. Ebony clouds, growling with thunder, stalked their path, smothering Jone and Jode and pitching the snow-covered land into insidious darkness. Snowflakes swirled around him in a flurry of frost and ice, the high winds lifting them into a furious dance. Some became caught on his whiskers and he shook them off irritably. Just once he would like to go someplace warm.

"If we hurry, we should make it to Winterhold before the worst is upon us. This one needs a drink."

They picked up their pace, the thought of a hot meal, a strong mead and a warm bed spurring them on. The day had been an arduous one, filled with the usual bandit attacks, assassination attempts and Draugr infested ruins, finally culminating in an epic battle that saw the wary travelers pitted against two dragons, three mammoths and one very aggressive fox.

By Kynareth's mercy they were climbing the short flight of steps to The Frozen Hearth just as the world succumbed to a chaotic onslaught of white.

Grateful for their narrow escape, they stepped inside, shutting the door firmly against the deluge of whirling snow. Winterhold may have been a humble city, some may say bordering on dreary, but it's inn was as warm and cozy as any other, a most welcome sight to tired eyes. 

Various faces turned to stare at them as they entered, the Nord innkeeper and his wife, Nelacar the Altmer mage and a rather rowdy drunken rabble of off-duty guards holed up in the corner. Having assessed the interlopers, all but the innkeeper turned away, finding greater interest in the bottom of their tankards than the new arrivals. 

Dagur greeted them with a warm, friendly smile. "Welcome to the Frozen Hearth. Let me know if you need anything. We're here to provide."

"Food and lodgings if you have either available would be lovely," Ysabeau said, rubbing her hands togther to encourage her skin to soak up the warmth provided by the generous fire.

"Got some stew in the kitchen, and uh...." Dagur looked from the Breton to the Khajiit with a bemused expression. "I only have the one room available, if that is alright. It's only a single if that changes things."

Ysabeau grinned. "That won't be a problem. We've shared the same patch of ground for countless numbers of nights, a bed is hardly different." Kharjo nodded in agreement.

"Right then, follow me and I'll show you to your room. You can freshen up while my wife, Haran here, gets your food."

"Thank you." 

Dagur led them to a small room filled with a single bed, a chair, a wardrobe and a chest. All the furniture looked like it had seen better days but the bed could have passed as one from the previous era. The wooden pallets were covered with a sparse layer of straw and shabby, moth eaten furs that provided little comfort from the wood beneath. 

None the less, they were exhausted so as soon as Dagur left them Ysabeau collapsed on top of it, sprawling her arms and legs across to take up as much space as her petite frame could manage. She rolled around, stilling on different spots to give a tentative bounce.

"At least it's not terribly lumpy. Or stone."

"Or the blood stained floor of a Dwemer ruin," Kharjo said with a wry smile. 

"I miss feather beds."

"Doesn't your college have feather beds? Why are we not there instead?"

"They may have feather beds but they also have Ancano." The name was spat from her lips like an unpleasant taste. Dramatically she threw her arm over her eyes as if that would help block the image of the Justiciar from her mind. "I am so not in the mood to deal with him right now. He's always spying on everything that goes on, lurking in the shadows and sneering at everyone. Being all creepy."

"He is a Thalmor Beau, do they not all do that?"

She peeked out at him through a gap in the crook of her arm. "Not all of them, some are surprisingly pleasant."

"Khajiit thinks you mean that you find some of them attractive so you overlook their more negative traits."

"Don't you go playing the moral high ground with me mister. Who was it that was flirting with that Khajiit assassin five minutes before she tried to kill me?"

"Aah, but she didn't kill you, this one ensured your safety. See, even in the light of passion Khajiit guards your back." 

"And as ever, I am eternally grateful for your loyalty and your swift reflexes." She grinned up at him. "Gods, what does that say about us? Are we only attracted to dangerous people? Is that messed up?" 

The hungered rumbling of her stomach sounded between them. 

"This one thinks such deep questions shouldn't be asked on an empty stomach, or dry tongues." 

"Agreed."

They prepared for dinner in companionable silence, going through the motions of unbuckling armour, removing weapons and taking stock of gear quality as they went, a routine that was so regular to them that it had become second nature.

Shed of their various weaponry save for a few daggers, both hidden and otherwise, and wearing the simple, practical clothes that was usually worn under their armour, the duo could have passed as any regular townsfolk rather than the warriors they actually were. 

This stripping of their protection was both a help and a hindrance. On one hand it aided in their ability to relax in the relative safety of the tavern, away from dragons and necromancers and the many other creatures of Tamriel that wanted them dead, but on the other, they were both acutely aware that one was never truly out of danger, no matter how brightly the fire glowed or how sturdy the surrounding walls were. Security could never be one hundred percent assured. Safety was life's greatest illusion.

With this in the back of their minds they chose a table in the corner to sit at, a position that guarded their backs and gave them the optimum view of the room and those that occupied it. At the table next to theirs sat Nelacar, huddled over one of his many books with a studious expression on his face.

"Greetings Nelacar." Beau said cheerily, leaning closer to him. "I hope this evening finds you well?"

"I don't like speaking with Azura's faithful. If you will excuse me." With a withering look in her direction he rose from his seat, collected his books and drink and exited to his private room. 

Kharjo chuckled. "The tall elf still hasn't forgiven you for the star?"

"Apparently not." She watched the mage's retreating form with a hint of sadness until the approaching sight of Haran arriving with their food tore her attention away. 

"Here you are, two bowls of steaming hot venison stew and I brought you over some mead. You two looked like you could use it." She set the plates and flagons down before them and stepped back, pleased with the enthusiastic reception her cooking received from them.

"Thank you," Kharjo said, "and please, keep the mead coming."

"Sure thing."

It had been so long since their last hearty meal that even Haran's mediocre stew was a delicacy to their taste buds. Few words passed between them as they tucked in, taking heaped spoon fulls and savouring the warmth in their previously chilled stomachs. Haran brought over more flagons of mead as needed, the golden liquid steadily disappearing down their throats and hitting another craving that had been neglected for far too long. Satisfied and full they relaxed in their chairs, happily soaking up the warmth and atmosphere of their surroundings. 

"I will be sad to leave in the morning," Kharjo observed, looking around him. "It may not be your Lakeview Manor but the more mead I drink, the more pleasing this place becomes."

Ysabeau giggled in reply, taking another drink. "Don't be too flattering in your comparison, last time I was there, Lakeview Manor had a dead giant on the doorstep and was overrun with skeevers in the cellar. Marcurio had gone overboard with chain lightning, so the whole place smelt like burnt rodent. It was disgusting! Llewellyn threatened to quit and Rayya had taken to sleeping in the stables with the horses until the smell cleared. I think she was tempted to quit too, but she is sworn to me so doesn't have the option."

"And of course, as a compassionate thane and employer you stayed to help, yes?"

"Of course, more or less," she replied with a sheepish look. "I shouted the giant corpse away from the house and threw a pouch of money to Marcurio as a raise for them all. Unfortunately, I was _desperately_ needed in Whiterun so I couldn't stay to clear out the skeevers."

"This one did wonder why you smelt like singed fur when you came by the caravan."

"And you didn't think to ask?"

"Sometimes it is best not to know. I thought it might be some game you play with your wolves."

Ysabeau stared at him in confusion. "What do you think the companions and I do -" before she could finish her question they were interrupted by one of the guards ambling over to their table, a drunken leer on his face and a swaying swagger to his step.

"Hey there, beautiful," he drawled. "My friends and I wanted to ask you to join us for a drink." 

The scent of stale mead on his breath and the precarious hold he had on his bottle of ale were a testament to how much he had already had to drink. The two men left at his table shouted words of encouragement, and what was perhaps supposed to be enticement, though if that is what they were aiming for, they were failing, dismally.

"I'm fine, thank you," she replied curtly, turning back to Kharjo.

"C'mon love, come spend some time with real men. I promise we'll make it worth your while."

"The lady said no." Kharjo said, a warning growl reverberating beneath his words. 

A salacious smile crept across their aggressor's face and he jerked his head at the Khajiit. "Pretty thing like you is wasted hanging out with his kind. He'll rob you blind and probably kill you for the trouble. Come with me and we'll keep you safe, and give you a right good fucking to boot, right boys?" A cheer resounded from his table.

"How dare you speak of him like that!" Ysabeau's tone was laced with steel and her eyes blazed with fury. "He is a better man than you could ever dream of being."

A meaty fist seized around her throat in a vice like grip, restricting her airway and hauling her from her seat, crushing her against his chest. "Is that so you cat loving slut - arrrgh!!!"

"Release her. Now." Kharjo's hand snaked around the Nord's neck, unsheathed claws as sharp as skyforged steel, digging into the vulnerable flesh.

The guard's face was as thunderous as the storm raging outside and he tightened his hold on the squirming woman. "We're men of the Imperial guard, we don't take orders from Breton whores and their pets," he snarled. 

"Very well." Small beads of blood bloomed, drawn from claws that were pressing dangerously close to the jugular and the life giving blood that pumped within. 

The other guards who, sluggish with their copious consumption of alcohol, hadn't realised until now that things weren't going as they planned, finally stumbled to their feet and made to move to their comrades aid.

"One step closer and I will tear out his throat," Kharjo warned them, tightening his grip.

They stopped. Wild eyes glazed with drink and uncertainty flicked between them, searching for an opportunity to gain the upper hand. 

Ysabeau whimpered and the beads of blood turned into rivulets that ran in crimson streams down the muscular neck. 

The guard succumbed. "Alright, alright!" He released his hold and Ysabeau fell with an unceremonious thud to the floor. Coughing and sputtering she gasped for the dusty air that hung in the inn, her starved lungs burning for oxygen. "She's down, let me go you bastard!"

Kharjo withdrew his claws and forcibly shoved the other man away, sending him staggering backwards towards his comrades. Flanked by back up and enraged by wounded pride, the guard's courage flared and he began to advance once more, drawing a dagger from it's sheath. 

"I'm going to make you regret that cat."

"You will see Sovengarde before you see Khajiit fall to your blade." 

Through a haze of pain Ysabeau cleared her abused throat and drew a breath, releasing it with a whispered "Fus-ro." The force of her Thu'um, though quiet, was enough to send all three Nords staggering back into the wall behind them, leaving a mess of overturned tables and chairs in their wake.

"What's going on here?!" Dagur cried, emerging from the cellar with Haran. "I will not stand for fighting in my inn!"

"A bit late for that." Kharjo mumbled.

"They attacked me and my men!" The head guard roared, pointing accusingly at Ysabeau and Kharjo, blood dripping from his finger.

"They assaulted the Dragonborn first," Kharjo explained through gritted teeth, his anger flaring. "He tried to strangle her. We acted in self defense."

Dagur took in the guard's bleeding neck and the Breton's pale face and bruised throat. He glowered at the guards. "Is this true?"

"We just wanted to have some fun with the lady, show her a good time. Not our fault if she prefers the company of cats." 

Haran spoke before her husband could, her voice cold and steady. "Get out of my inn."

"But the blizzard! You can't send us out there in that."

Dagur moved to the door and opened it, a howling gust of wind and snow blustering through the entrance. "It's a short walk to the guard's barracks. You'll be fine. At least until I have a word with the Jarl tomorrow."

With mumbled threats and furious glares the guards marched out into the cold, the door slamming shut behind them.

Kharjo dropped to his knees at Ysabeau's side, concern overwhelming his anger. "Are you alright?" His hands cupped her face as he searched her for any signs of injury. "Your throat is bruised." Tenderly he reached up to touch the purple marks flowering on her skin. 

"I'm fine," she coughed with a weak smile. "Nothing a healing spell can't fix. And maybe a few more drinks," she added softly, summoning the spell to her hands. The golden glow lit up her skin, chasing away the pain and bruising, leaving her creamy complexion unblemished and pain free.

Dagur turned to them, "I'm sorry about their behaviour, the drink is no excuse. I'll see that the Jarl knows about it tomorrow. Though I can't promise he'll do anything about it, mores the pity."

"Thank you," Ysabeau said with sincerity, her voice already sounding clearer thanks to the magic. "We'll help right the tables and then retire I think."

Kharjo corrected her with a soft push in the direction of their room. "This one will help right the tables, you will go and lie down. I will join you shortly."

Knowing better than to argue with him, something she learned early on in their friendship, Ysabeau did as he said and curled up in their room to wait.


	2. Comfort

Kharjo returned a short time later, bearing a tray laden with sweetrolls and two steaming mugs. 

"Khajiit thought you would enjoy something sweet."

"Sweet Lady Mara, is that tea?" Ysabeau asked, eagerly sitting up on her knees to peer at the hot liquid inside.

"Haran thought we would like some dessert," he explained, setting the tray down. "This one explained your love of tea and luckily for us, she had some leaves stored in the cellar. No milk I am afraid, but plenty of sugar. Khajiit will never understand the Nord's dislike of milk."

"Me neither, but we can't hold that against them," Ysabeau said with an amused smile, gratefully accepting the mug he offered. She breathed deeply, savouring the aroma before taking a blissful sip. 

"Thank you Kharjo, for everything."

"You are most welcome, my friend." 

He shifted his position so he was leaning back against the headboard and stretched his arm across the pillow in a silent invitation for her to join him. She did so happily, curling against him and finding comfort in the familiar solidity of his presence.

"Kharjo?"

"Yes, Beau?"

"Will you tell me a story?"

"Of course, what kind of story would you like?"

"Anything you feel like telling," she said with a contented sigh, nuzzling into the warmth of his side. 

"Very well. Once upon a time, there was a very feisty kitten who never did as she was told. She was always running into barrows, flame and sword at the ready, and never heeded the advice of her hansome and charming friend. He warned her that she should be more cautious -"

"This friend doesn't happen to be a Khajiit does he?"

"Oh yes," He purred. "A very wise - and did I mention handsome? - Khajiit who moves with the stealth of Rajhin and never triggers traps on his friends."

"I am still terribly sorry about that, I thought I had disarmed all the traps. The ancient Nords were surprisingly crafty when it came to their security. Can you ever forgive me?" she sat up and cast him the most pitifully sorrowful look she could conjure.

"We will see," Kharjo replied with a teasing smile.

"You simply must forgive me, you love me too much not to."

"Is that so?"

"Absolutely. If you didn't, you would have had enough of my eccentricites by now and would ignore all the quests I tempt you with. May I have a real story now, please? Pretty please with moon sugar on top?"

"As you wish," Kharjo said, his green eyes bright with mischief in the candlelight. "Have you heard the one about the Breton who nearly got arrested in Riften for indecent exposure?"

A low chuckle rumbled deep in his throat as she gave him a playful shove and collapsed back at his side. 

"Personally, I think a dragon attack takes priority over making sure one is clothed or not."

"As I am sure all would agree with you, especially those that witnessed it."

"You think you're charming don't you?"

"Rogueishly so, or so I have been told."

Ysabeau couldn't help but laugh along with him, his good nature was infectious and impossible to ignore for long, instead she asked, with a teasing smile of her own, "This lady who said you were charming, was she one of your many caravan conquests?"

"No," Kharjo said with a wistful smile. "She was someone I knew a long time ago, from home." He tilted his head down to glance at her. "Would you like to hear that story?"

She nodded in response and he began, the accented lilt of his voice reverberating through her and sweeping them both away in the tale of his memories.

"Her name was Riava. She was the most beautiful Khajiit I had ever seen. She had the sweetest nature, with the softest brown eyes and a voice like velvet. Her family grew sugarcane not far from my village and we would often sneak away beyond the plantations to the privacy of the forest where we could be alone together. We were barely more than cubs, but we thought it was a great love, blessed by Mara herself.

We begged the Clan Mother to marry us, but she refused, as did our families. They claimed we had much growing to do and much to learn before we were ready for marriage. We were full of sorrow and began to make plans to run away to Torval to be married there, with the idea that this one would try and become a member of the warrior guard to The Mane, an honour I had often dreamed of. 

Before these plans could come to pass a strain of Khenarthi flu swept through our village, taking many lives and leaving others gravely ill. At the first word of the outbreak Riava's family fled the village, seeking safety in one of the larger cities. She wanted me to go with them, but I refused. My mother was a healer and an alchemist, her skills were needed in our village, and she needed me. I couldn't leave her to care for everyone on her own. My mother and the Clan Mother were able to save over half of our village, but I never saw Riava again. I hear about her, every now and then through the caravans. She is living in Torval, healthy and content with a husband and 5 cubs of her own."

"Do you ever wish that was you? That things had been different?"

"Our families and Clan Mother were very wise, we did have much growing and learning to do. This one would not have been happy staying in one place for the rest of my life. Although I sometimes miss my time with Riava, I would miss our adventures more."

"Aww Kharjo, be sure to remember that next time I accidentally get you hurt, ok?" 

"This one will try," he promised with a boyish grin that dripped with insincerity. "Now that you have heard Khajiit's story what of your own, hmm? Who was the first man to sweep the mighty Dragonborn off of her feet?" 

Ysabeau gave a short laugh, trying to stifle the groan of embarrassment that was welling in her throat. 

"Oh gods, this sounds so ridiculous after your beautiful bittersweet story, but if I must tell you, his name was Perion. He worked in my families stables, tending to the horses and accompanying me as my chaperone when I went out riding. He was only a couple of years older, but I thought he was so dashing and mature. 

"One day we were out riding and we stopped to rest in a clearing. He helped me dismount and then kissed me. It took me completely by surprise, I'd never been kissed before but reciprocated as best as I knew how. It happened again until the clearing became our regular destination and our kisses less chaste. We would tether the horses and become lost in our youthful fumbling until it was time to go back home. Under the eyes of the staff and my parents we were very discreet, and to this day I don't think they suspect what went on when we went riding." 

Kharjo chuckled, shifting his position slightly on the bed. "It seems to be a theme for the young, to steal away from watchful eyes whenver they can." As he continued, his voice took on a subtle nervous edge. "Beau will think this one foolish," He began, looking away shyly, "but he has often wondered...what does it feel like, for humans and mer, to kiss? Khajiit physiology is not made for such things." 

She tilted her head to the side in thought, pondering his question before answering, "I guess, kissing is...a softness, with a warmth that blooms from the first touch of a lover's lips. Your nerves tingle in the most delightful way, and if done with the right person, even when you part you are left wanting more. It's a difficult sensation to put into words, let me show you." 

She sat up and gracefully swung her leg over his waist so she was sitting astride his lap, then, with a coy smile, she took up his hand in her own and gently turned it over. Her thumbs softly caressed the pad of his palm, gliding over the calluses left from years of skillfully wielding heavy weapons. Lifting his hand to her mouth, she placed a feather light kiss on his skin. 

"Palms aren't nearly as sensitive as lips of course, but -" 

Kharjo watched entranced as she kissed him again, this time her lips lingering in place, as a butterfly alighting on a pollen heavy flower. 

"- it will give you an echo of how lovely it can feel." 

A shiver, freed from the anchor of her lips as she pulled away, swept down his arm. "This one does not usually find cause to be jealous of other races, but if this is merely an echo, Khajiit is most envious." 

"Khajiit affection is just as nice," she said. "Simply different." She leaned forward slightly, making her intention clear, and when he didn't move to stop her, she leaned down all the way until their faces were close and she was able to rest her forehead against his. Her eyes fluttered closed and she inhaled slowly and deeply, going through the motions of the Khajiit version of kissing. Kharjo's breath was hot and sweet against her skin and his whiskers tickled her flushed cheeks. 

"My Breton friend seems to be skilled in both arts," he purred teasingly as she pulled away, putting slight distance between them. 

A witty retaliation was on the tip of her tongue but the husk of his accented voice was caressing places deep within her that she had been trying to ignore and although she gallantly managed to suppress the outward signs, the subtle shift within her body must have alerted his senses to the change. His previously playful expression darkened, his ears lowered and the pace of his own heart picked up, hammering a rhythm in time with her own. 

Delicate hands came up to stroke the side of his face, and indigo eyes searched his for the desire that she knew was reflected in her own. He had beautiful eyes, she thought. Eyes that were wise beyond their years, that danced with mirth and blazed with fire. Sea green depths that you could fall into and blissfully drown. At this moment they were full of questions, uncertainty, excitement and arousal. 

"Kharjo?" 

"Beau, this one does not want to do anything you don't want to..our friendship..." 

"Our friendship is the most important thing in the world to me, nothing can ever change that." As she spoke she slipped her hands underneath his tunic, trailing her fingers along the muscles of his chest. 

"Right now, I want you as more than a friend, but only if you want it too." 

"Bright moons, yes."

***

There was no desperation in their coupling. They came together slowly, indulgently losing themselves in the ancient primal search for safety and comfort that can only be found in the embrace of one that is trusted and loved.

With every movement and touch they washed away the foulness of the previous hours. Searching hands of familiar strangers became acquainted with the planes and curves of their forms, hard muscle and soft flesh, healing the physical and emotional wounds that had been inflicted on them by tongue, claw and weapon. Hushed moans and whispers were muffled prayers for their ears alone, breathing of pleasure and ecstasy, promise and redemption. Ghosts of words that caressed their senses before becoming lost on the still air surrounding them. 

Together they lost themselves, and became found again. Strengthening the bonds of love and friendship that had seen them through the years of great joy and harrowing danger since their first encounter, many moons ago. 

Hours later, wrapped in the quiet contentment of their sated embrace, the pair drifted - lulled to sleep by the gentle vibrations of Kharjo's purr and Kynareth's cries of the ongoing storm.


End file.
